


Modern Times

by Argyle



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-29
Updated: 2008-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four o'clock and all is well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modern Times

"Tell me about it."

"What?"

"Hyde," says Gene.

Sam looks up. There's a shadow on his face, the pocked reflection of rain through the Cortina windscreen, casting his features in plum. "Surely you've been there."

"I have."

"Well. There's not much else to tell. It's just a regular sort of place."

"For all your talk, you'd think it was bloody Shangri-La."

"Grass is always greener, and all."

Gene shakes his head. "You know, I thought that. Every time you mention the place, I think, 'There he goes. Wouldn't see a good thing if it came round with a willow branch to his knees--'"

"Never at a loss for subtlety."

"--But it's more than that, isn't it? And yeah, the Hyde I know _is_ a regular sort of place, if by 'regular' you mean somewhere completely devoid of adequate pubs, and where you feel dirtier for the proximity. Good eye for detail, me. But it's hard to believe such a spot could have spat out the prissy, raving nutter I find sitting next to me."

"I steeped your tea too long again, did I? That's what this is about?"

"It's about you, dearest Samuel. Topic close to your heart."

Sam sighs. And then: "I don't feel dirtier. I didn't feel anything."

"So it's all Quaaludes and sonic showers, yeah?"

"Yeah. Every morning, my robot butler made me toast, shaved and dressed me, and revved the motor of my flying car. Meals came in pill-form, and the music of Johann Strauss was piped over the intercoms absolutely everywhere, all the time."

"And things are better."

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"Right," says Gene.

"It's more about convenience," Sam begins, and drags a hand through his hair. There's a quirk hanging about his mouth. No smile. "You've all the information in the world at your fingertips. Case records, rulings, precedence. Everything's recorded and saved in triplicate: it's so easy to see how things were before. And how they'll be. I listened to the new Jarvis Cocker single six months before it was released. There's a train wreck in Barcelona and three minutes later, it's on every screen around the globe. I want a great recipe for Kung Pao chicken? It's there, waiting for me."

"But if it's all so easy, if you've every option in front of you, there's no pressure to make any one choice."

"No," Sam says, picking an invisible piece of lint from his shirtfront. After a moment, he stares out the window for the suspect who hasn't come, and who probably never will. In another hour, Carling and Skelton'll come round for the second shift.

Gene's acutely aware of the closeness of it all, like an Alsatian baring its teeth over a soft stretch of throat. He doesn't touch Sam. Doesn't try to reassure him. But he offers over his flask.

As Sam takes it, swallowing down a healthy nip, Gene recognizes the flash of realization, of being so wrapped up as to feel, quite stupidly, that the world might blink out of existence if Sam ever left it. Thing is, nor did Gene want to be the one who had to mop up, put the chairs on the tables, and pull the lamp cord.

"You don't actually believe any of this, do you?"

"No," Gene says.

"Not even the bit about the robot butler?"

"No."

"Because I really meant that. You wouldn't believe how great it is to have a machine take over all the horrible, mundane tasks in one's life. No more dirty laundry!"

"And here I am, shagging a ruddy oracle. You'd think something'd eventually rub off."

Sam smiles. "Watch it. I hear venereal precognition's nigh incurable. If you're not careful you'll be a regular wireless, predicting match scores."

"I'd fancy early retirement."

"No, you wouldn't."

Gene sniffs and pulls a coin from his pocket. "All right, Lady Vera. Tuppenny bit to read my fortune."

Sam takes another swig. "Don't invest in Betamax."


End file.
